


Wy-Naught and the Dreaming Bawn

by Dinmenel (Vesperidian)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Death, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10574352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vesperidian/pseuds/Dinmenel
Summary: In which Wy goes on a walk, and learns the Joy of snow.





	

 

 

Here is our empty Wy, crying hic, hic, hic beneath the brush. Behind here were three days and three nights of flight in a forest buzzing and beating the Harrying Hymns of angry face-snakes. The ragamuffin’s static voodoo protected her from their bramra for a while, but eventually the Tiny Creature vanished on its own business, as cats – even daedric cats – will do. Samantha John tried to convince his friend to go home and get her Nana Nibblet to protect her, but Wy was just a titch too proud for that, and informed him of it quite sharply. And so the Imga, too, scampered off to safety. Hunted by the no-longer-Living Law, Wy hunted only a hideout.

But, as often happens in the depths of the Doldrums, it was the hideout that found her.

Between one sob and the next, a busybody landed on Wy’s shaking shoulder. She turned her head, and stared into the edged eyes of a fat black bee. Immediately she gasped and flung it off – it was a bramra bee, slave-scout of the face-snakes, and would surely land her back in their prison city – or worse.

“Ohhhh, no, you’ll never catch me!” she squeaked as she scrambled away through the bushes, “Not Wy, not Wy, not Wy!” Behind her, the bee made hasty chase. The two flashed through the misty morning forest, scattering flurries of dew. The deep hum of a face-snake hive-hub rose up before her, and Wy darted to one side. The buzzing rose up there, too, and she whirled off in the opposite direction – only to find that there, too, was the heavy sound of bramra, and to realize that she was surrounded. She ran anyway, not thinking any more, just running, just longing, just wanting out, away, not-here, and then…

… and then she tripped over an outstretched root. She spit out a mouthful of dirty leaves and looked up, but did not find the angry oliphaunt Lawyer she expected. Instead, before her stood Knot, the enormous dead tree she had found with Samantha John in the face-snake prison. But he didn’t look quite so dead anymore. He still lacked leaves, but he was covered in busy bramra, and the horrible rent that split his trunk was partially repaired with amber honeycomb.

The bee that had chased her zoomed around in front of her, wiggling its butt smugly. A clump of other bees flew over, and together they spelled these words in the air:

 

 

 

> **WY SO CLUMSIEST?**

 

Wy stared for a second. Then she jumped up and ran, laughing like crazy, to throw her arms around the giant tree in a big hug. The hairy bark thrilled to her like skin, and the bees tickled tenderly in her puckerbrush hair.

“Oh Knot, Knot, I was so afraid!” Wy babbled as she pulled back. “The oliphaunts are after me and Samantha John is gone and the ragamuffin is gone and I haven’t eaten in three days and I’m so glad to see you!” She hugged him again. A bee buzzed insistently by her pointed ear, and she looked over to see that a group had spelled out another word: EAT. Honey dripped down Knot’s trunk from their hive, thick and golden and glowing. So Wy gave the tree a fat kiss and licked the sweet sap from his trunk and ate of the hive’s stocks until her silly old tummy was quite full up. Then she sat back and sighed.

 

 

Suddenly a great thundering rhythm pounded in the forest. The full-up-empty girl stiffened in alarm.

“That was a Lawyer,” she said tensely. The sound beat steadily closer, shaking dew from the trees around them. “They’re coming, Knot, they’re really coming this time! What are we going to do?”

The bees brewed hesitantly for a moment. Then they spelled:

 

 

> **GET IN**

 

 

 

Wy cocked her head. The bramra fled eagerly into their honeycomb, beckoning Wy after them. It hardly looked like a place she could enter, but the rhythm grew ever louder. The ground beneath her quivered in fear. And so the tiny elf shrugged, and dived into the hexagonal streams of honey.

And Knot’s sweet xylem smear  
dissolved her  
away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

  
  
Knot spit her out into a big pile of cold wet. Above, a velvety night sky grinned down at her through the teeth of a too-big moon. It curled its horns around a blue-green twinkle among the stars and said you are definitely, definitely not in the Valenwood anymore.

 

 

Wy gathered up a handful of the cold wet and sat up. “What’s this, what’s this?” she sang quietly to herself, and got to her freezing feet. Knot was still there, at least, standing with her in the clearing of a strange, dark forest, colder and emptier and more pointless than any she had ever known. “There’s white stuff everywhere, Knot,” she trilled anxiously. “What is it?”

A cloud of bramra spelled out: FROZEN JOY and then: TA TA FOR NOW.

 

 

“What? Where are you going?” cried Wy, but Knot did not listen. In less than a blink, the tree’s cloud of bees had diffused away into the forbidding forest, leaving Wy alone in the frozen Joy.

The young animal crossed her arms and harrumphed. “See if I kiss you again,” she said, and set about surveying the land. On all sides was the frozen Joy and the forbidding forest, its needled branches bowed low by snow. Only the weeping wind made any sound, howling through the pointed treetops like a grieving mother.

Wy harrumphed again, and cupped her tiny paws around her mouth. “Is there anybody out there?! Somebody sing hello, hello, hello! Somebody come help Wy, Wy, Wy!” Her words echoed back at her against the dome of night. And, true to form, her wondering song rustled up the forest. A single snowy owl took flight from a tree ahead of her, scattering Joy as dust on the wind… and, behind her, a chorus of eager howls sliced the night.

Wy may not have been in that forest before, but that was quite enough for her to know which way the wind was blowing. So she did what anyone would have done: she concentrated on not losing her head, and on finding her feet. She found them nearly as frozen as the Joy, for she had no shoes. She frowned a moment, thinking. And then, of course, she did what no one would have done – she plunged each foot into Knot’s golden honey. Congealing in the cold, it formed a sappy, flexible sole.

 

 

And, warmed by the sweetest of socks,  
Wy sallied forth  
to the forest.

 

 

* * *

 

  
The owl was nowhere to be found, and the howling of the wolf gang sang sharp on the wind, but Wy stopped anyway when she found the lamp post. It was silver, and stuck halfway out of the frozen Joy. Its lamp was scraped vellum, which is a kind of skin, and lit from within by wriggling green glow worms. Others just like it marched off two by two between the trees, spreading pools of eerie light.

 

 

“Why Wy,” the girl said to herself, “it’s very like a buried path.”

“Oh, much astute,” said a woman’s voice. “Very insight. And not redundant at all.” The speaker was a large black and white Beast, like a horse but with a strangely shaped head, a silver horn, and nine fluffy fox tails. She loomed above Wy from a snowbank across the way, her stomach clammering with sarcasm.

 

“Hello,” said Wy. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know?” replied the Beast, and sat back on her haunches.

“Some kind of Prey Beast, I expect,” answered Wy, “but no, I don’t know.”

The Beast snickered. “Not very good, are you? One-love.”

Wy frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Aren’t we playing at Questions?” replied the Beast.

“What kind of game is that?”

“One you ought to know, with that name.”

Wy showed her sharp little teeth. “One-one. So what are you called?”

A great growl came from the Beast’s belly. “Drat,” she said, and scowled at the girl. In the distance, the wolf gang howled again. The Beast’s head jerked up.

“How far do you think they are?” she asked.

“Maybe twelve pages,” Wy said with a shrug. “Are they after you?”

“Two-one, but shouldn’t we finish this later?” The great white Beast was on her feet, pawing at the ground nervously.

“Maybe if you’ll take me with you,” said Wy, and immediately stomped her honeyed heel in frustration. “Will you take me with you, I meant!”

But the Beast had already vanished away into the forest, leaving only a few last jabs hanging in the air.

“Isn’t that the game?” she cried. “But, oh, how should you know? Let’s rematch at the Bawn!” Her voice drifted off into the wind.

“The Bawn?” said Wy to herself. “What did she mean by that?” She wasn’t sure she wanted a rematch anyway; the Beast had been a bit of a snot. The wolf gang howled again, so she put away her wonderings and hurried on.

A short distance away, around a bend in the path, she found an Object. It was a large brass statue of an eight-legged centaur with a chain-link beard. One arm ended in a bladeless hilt, and the other in a long pole capped with a buttery neon light. Its face was turned up to the stars.

 

 

Suddenly the Object spoke, and Wy jumped. “Nirn is bright tonight,” it said, and stamped five of its metal hooves.

Wy braced herself, determined to win the game this time.

“Who are you?” she asked abruptly.

The statue looked down at her, one of its eyes telescoping in to get a better view. It answered in a flat, mechanical voice.

“I am I, the Pelin-Ur,” it said. “Lone Centurion, Horse-Made Knight. Who are you?”

“Wy, don’t you know?” the girl replied. The Centurion cocked its head 45 degrees to the side. Then a gear clicked loudly in its head, and it bent sharply down to stare into Wy’s eyes.

 

 

“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?! Which way did she go? Tell me now!” it screeched harshly.

“I don’t know!” shrieked Wy. “Leave me alone!”

The Centurion’s eye shutters snapped open and closed. Then it backed away sharply. “Apologies,” it said. “My programming overcomes me at times. My Master was very into the Hunt.”

“Was your Master a Dwarf?” asked Wy. “And what are you hunting?”

“He was Dwemer, yes,” the metal knight replied.

“He made me to Course the prey, and then to bring it down when he no longer could. I had a sword for that once, you know, whiter than snow, but I lost it here long ago.” A puff of steam escaped his ear like a sigh.

“But what are you hunting?” Wy prompted again.

“Hunting?” said the Knight. “Oh, many things, many things. Everyone here is. My Master, my sword, and – ah. Her. The Beast Gladosant. You’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“If she’s a big Questioning Beast, yes,” answered Wy.

“I thought as much. She tends to infect meat-bags like you.”

The two stared at each other for a few seconds. Then Wy asked, “Why do you hunt her?”

The Centurion rolled its shoulders. “Oh, you know. She’d get lonely if I didn’t. She’s a Questioning Beast. She needs to be chased after, and I need to chase. It works out.”

“But what are you hunting, honey heels?” the Centurion wondered flatly. “I haven’t seen you in the Course before.”

Wy shifted uncertainly. “Um – an owl, I suppose. I’m sort of just questing to quest.”

“After the Urim, then,” replied the Knight, and jerked an approving nod. “Well, I should really be getting on after the old girl, but I expect we’ll meet again at the Bawn. Cheerio! Oh, and I did see Owl Urim fly through not so long ago!” it yelled flatly as its eight legs galloped clunkily off, frothing frozen Joy. “Toward the mountains! There’s a sort of Faire in the foothills if you need a guide! Good hunting! As for me - onward to Glados I go, oh whithersoever she goes! Tally ho!” And the Lone Centurion was gone, leaving Wy alone once more at a crossroads of Courses.

“I might as well not bother talking,” she grumbled to herself, and contemplated turning back toward Knot.

  
But the wolf gang’s glee  
harried her on  
in the Hunt.

 

* * *

  
  
The Faire, when she found it, was really more of a Thoroughfare. The Joy had been trampled down into muddy slush, exposing the dirty gravel path between the lines of lamps marching on up into the icy mountains. Along the way were many skewed tents and ramshackle shanties, cobbled together from raw logs and mud, and to one side a little stream trickled through wooden waterwheels and sluices. Warm orange light dripped from the chinks of the buildings along with hearty shouts and laughter, but the only person still outside was a dark robed figure hunched up by the stream. Wy hurried over.

 

 

“Hello,” she said, and decided to dispense with introductions. “What are you looking for?”

The figure raised its hooded head to look at her. It was a blue-eyed young man, and he was hunched over a large telescope pointed at the sky. His large white feet were bare, and completely submerged in the stream.

“For the Truth,” he answered amiably. “Also called CHIM. How about you?”

“For an owl – also called Urim, I guess,” Wy replied. “You think you’ll find Truth in the stars?”

The young man nodded as he squinted through his scope once again. “Most certainly I do. And, one day, I hope to make port in that coldest of harbors.”

Wy’s eyebrows jumped about quite of their own doing, but she nodded politely. “What’s all this then?” She waved around at the various sluices, pans, sieves, and magnets lying scattered about the streambed.

“This? Sifting paraphernalia, of course. I don’t do much of it myself, but sifting is pretty much the whole reason for Peart’s Path to exist at all.”

Wy cocked her head. “What are you sifting for? Gold?”

The man guffawed loudly. “Gold?! What do these men want with gold? No, lass, no, it’s silver the gents in Peart’s Path are after. Gold,” he chuckled to himself. “What use is gold here? As barmy as Dodok.”

Wy frowned, but held back a snide reply. “Aren’t your feet cold?” she asked instead.

“My feet?” the man said, bewildered, and looked down. “Oh, Hunter’s Hoof, but I didn’t even realize. What good are you as a Nord if you can’t chock up a little snow or ice, eh? We’re hardy folk. But you, now,” he went on, peering closely down at her, “you look like you could do with a bit of fire and hot mead.”

He was quite right. Wy was hardier than she had any right to be, but she was still nearly a candle of winter by that point. And so the young Nord packed up his scope, picked up the little elf, and carried her into the warm Mud Pub of Peart’s Path.

Inside was all loud and crowd, sweet pipe smoke and roaring laughter. Bush-bearded men were cramped into every cranny and corner, tossing dice and cards and guzzling black horns of mead. A grey-grizzled Dunmer hung in a silver cage overhead, belting out a gravelly rendition of ‘The Hero of the Cantons, the Elf they call Vehk’ over and under it all.

 

 

“Let’s find Dodok!” the Nord yelled in Wy’s ear. “You two should get along! He likes gold too much too!” He carried her through the crowd, dodging flying platters and lines of lumberjacks getting jiggy with it, and finally plopped her down in a seat at an uneven round table covered with coins and cards.

“Dodok,” he said as he took the seat next to her, “meet our newest citizen!”  
  
From out of the smoke swam a squished face, nearly swallowed by wiry red hair and beard. A little male person was sitting next to her in a hightop chair, smaller than she but fully grown and thickly muscled. He clenched a rough pipe in his white teeth, shooting his eyes bloody with the smoke.

 

 

“What, a newcomer?” he exclaimed when he saw Wy. “EXCELLENT. I love newcomers. Fetch this lass some gear, laddies, and deal her in! Mead – er, well, a jot of buttered cider, at least! Go on, go on, get to!” He started the rush of redecoration by shoving his pipe in her mouth, clapping her happily on the back when she choked on the smoke. By the time the table was done donating gear, Wy had a patched felt hat, a heavy leather jacket, and a flagon of cider. Warmed through to her toes, she decided she quite liked this little dwarf man already.

“Now, I’m Dodok Nokomlikot, Alchemist,” he said. “How’re you called, eh gehly, and what’re you after?”

Wy puffed smoke through the pipe. “I’m Wy,” she said, “and I’m looking for an owl – and a blade, maybe.”

“An owl and a maybe-blade, eh?” said the squished man. “Well we’ve neither here, but yeh’re welcome to join us just as long as you like, be it the night or the nine!”

“Wax your jaws later, Dodok!” barked one of the men at the table. “We’ve matches to win against you!”

“We’ll see, we’ll see shortly enough, but let me instruct the young lassie in our play first, eh? Then you’ll have your chance and more.” He spread out Wy’s cards, pointing out the different classes and monsters and inversions – it seemed to be the deck of a High Rock sorcerer – and before long Wy was caught up in the swirl of the cards just as much as the rest of the pub. It was a game in three parts – Course, Drive, and Kill – and at first she didn’t win many tricks. But by the time the game had wound down and the rest of the table had moved on to easier opponents, the little elf had a tidy pile of silver before her and an indebted dwarf by her side.

 

 

“Well,” harrumphed Dodok as the young Nord laughed into his mead. “Clearly, my prime directive should have kicked in a bit earlier this night.”

“Your prime directive?” asked Wy, stacking her silver hoard gleefully.

“In cards, anyway,” replied the squished man. “When they start beating me, I stop teaching. But, take win or lose as they come. I’ll have to go to my lab to pay you all, though,” he added, a bit sourly.

Wy giggled, and petted his beard. “There’s no point, Nokomlikot. I can’t carry all this anyway. Why don’t you two split it?”

The little man brightened immediately. “And call the debt null?”

Wy mused. “Hmmm. How about… you owe me a silver-white blade, if you ever find one. And I keep this pipe.” She waved it at him.

“A silver-white blade if I ever find one, eh?” answered Dodok shrewdly, rubbing his beard. “All right. Shall we shake on it?” He spat into his pudgy little palm.

“Yes, very good!” laughed Wy, and spit into her own hand. But the squished man did not shake. He only stared, and whispered,

“Witch-spit.”

And in the Mud Pub’s sudden hush  
Wy’s harmless hand  
gleamed blue.

 

 

* * *

 

  
Honey heels cold on frozen Joy once more, Wy interrogated Dodok.

“What’s so bad about Witch-spit?” she asked as they trudged between the glowworm lamps up into the mountains. “Why’d they kick me out?”

 

 

“Nothing… really,” answered the little man. “It just means you’re a Witch. With a capital.”

“I don’t know any spells.” Wy frowned.

“Doesn’t matter. You will. And it’s not that we don’t approve, it’s just… even though we live here now, we still have some leftover fears.”

“Leftover from where?”

The squished man pointed up to the little blue-green speck caught between the horns of the moon.

“There,” he said. “Nirn.” And to that, Wy had no response.

“But more important than our frights,” the little man went on after a moment, “is that, if you’re a Witch, you’re also a Candidate for the Hunt.” Behind them, the cries of the wolf gang rose up in force. Wy shivered.

“A Prey candidate?” she asked nervously.

“Dodok chuckled. “No, no, don’t worry. A Huntsman Candidate. The Prey is already chosen: the Questioning Beast, as always.”

“Who chooses?”

“Well, the Predators – that’s them, the wolf gang back there – choose the Prey, and the Prey Beasts choose the Huntsman. So that’s who we’re going to see.”

Wy just nodded, and they continued along their path of frozen Joy.

They were well into the mountains, the forest thickened moodily around them, but they had only gone on a few more minutes before Wy’s curiosity got back to her mouth.

“Are you actually a dwarf, Dodok?”

The little man guffawed heartily. “I was wondering how long it would take ye, gehly. Yes, I’m really a dwarf.”

“But… you don’t have the – uh – ears. And I thought they were normal sized.”

He scowled at her. “I am normal sized for me! You’re the gussilopes around here. But no, I ain’t an elf by any means. Haven’t you ever heard of a goblin?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but you don’t look like one.”

“Of course I don’t, ‘cause I ain’t one! But I am what you’d get if you could shove one through a mirror. Haven’t you ever wondered what happens to Men that get too caught up in themselves, too greedy and grabby, helping others build up defenses, aye, but bouncing before the storm breaks out its fury? Well, have ye or haven’t ye, I’m the answer. And don’t think it says nothing about my kind – it don’t. We’re as good as any of ye, for who doesn’t have a shameful ancestor or two? No one, so don’t come at me about mine.”

“I think you’re grand, Dodok,” said Wy gently. Dodok grinned at her, white teeth bright in the moonlight.

“I never asked before,” she went on, “but what are you looking for?”

“Me?” said Dodok, and blushed bright red. “Well – transformation. Dust to gold, dwarf to man. But really, more than that I’d like a compani-“ But at that moment, a large snowy bundle crashed onto the path, smooshing the dwarf into the snow and rolling to a loud stop against a tree.

“You clumsy nincompoop!” the dwarf yelled, muffled beneath the snow. His head popped back up, but before he could get to his feet the enormous bundle had unfolded into an adult moon bear and trampled him back down. Roaring loudly, the scarlet-breasted bear bore down on Wy. Its yellow teeth flashed in the night.

 

 

“You idiot!” came Dodok’s muffled voice. The bear snarled and snapped at the little elf. Wy stumbled and fell, and the bear loomed above her. “The nose, Wy, the nose!” shouted Dodok. The bear lowered its head. And, desperately, Wy kicked it in the nose with her honeyed heel.

It fell back on its rump, shaking its head in woozlement. Then its eyes focused on Wy’s feet, and, with a little grin, it began to lick away the sweetness of her socks.

 

 

“Wy,” said Dodok, stomping through the snow to help her up, his whole body white, “meet Peart.”

“How do you do?” said the bear politely, and slurped at her toes.

“How do you do?” replied Wy. “What are you looking for?”

“Oh, to break my fast on honeydew instead of honey,” answered the bear sadly, lapping up the last of her socks. “Not that honey is bad, of course.

“This lout is the namesake of the Path, Wy,” said Dodok, punching the bear in the elbow. “He’s been searching longer than any of us, and he’s nice enough when he’s not completely blind.”

Wy giggled as the bear frowned down at the tiny man.

“Any way, now that you’re here, can you lift us up to the Meese-Moot?” asked Dodok. “Wy here is a Candidate.”

“The Meese-Moot?” mused the moon bear. “Well, all right. I suppose we’re all headed to the Bawn anyway.” And before Wy could ask once again about the Bawn, the bear had picked her up by the neck of her robe and seated her on his back, and the three Seekers scudded away up the mountain.

Peart carried the two far more quickly than they could have walked, loping easily through the trees, and it was not long at all before the frozen crags of the mountain peaks hung just overhead, fanged caves yawning. He took them to a small lake nestled between two slopes, where five fat moose stood thigh deep in the icy water.

 

 

“Who are you then?” said one of them as they climbed off Peart’s back.

“I’m Dodok Nokomlikot, Alchemist,” answered the dwarf. “And this is Wy, a Candidate.”

“A Candidate?” another moose said. “She doesn’t look like much.”

“Who are you to say?” asked Wy crossly.

A third moose peered down its snout at her. “We,” it said snootily, “are the Meese-Moot.”

“We’re the moose who say meese,” added the fourth, drily.

“Pray tell us Prey Beasts what recommends this one as a Candidate, Alchemist,” said the fifth, smacking its lips.

Dodok straightened his smock. “She’s got Witch-spit, your Preyness.”

“Witch-spit, is it?” said the first. “How did you get that?”

Wy shrugged. “From a pear, I guess.”

The Meese-Moot stared at her. “From a pear,” said the third. “Well, I suppose that’s as good as anywhere.”

“We have no other Candidates,” said the second. “So I vote yay.” The others chorused their agreement. “Very good,” said the fourth. “You are now our Huntsman.”

 

“I am?” Wy asked in bewilderment. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No,” answered the first. “We are the Meese-Moot, and we choose the Huntsman. We serve the Demon Elk as His Prey Beasts, as the Wolf-Gang serves as His Hounds, and as you will serve as His Head.”

“But the Hounds are not here,” said Dodok, before Wy could protest again. “Nor the Questioning Beast.”

“This is of no matter,” said the Meese-Moot in unison. “We shall call them hence.”

The five moose threw back their heads and beat the night with their wheezing bellows, and from the winds slipped the great gang of wolves, Joy-furred and red-mouthed and pink-eyed, leaving no prints upon the snow in their anxious pacing.

From the depths of the Meese-Moot’s swamp was dredged the golden skull of the Huntsman, and with its dripping horns Wy was crowned and set high upon the back of the scarlet-breasted bear. On the crags above, the sarcasm-calls of their Prey rang forth, harried by clanks and whirs.

 

 

 

   
And the moon tossed its horns  
as the Huntsman  
gave chase.

 

  


* * *

 

  
Quartering the crystal tundra and harrowing the lonely taiga, the Hunt poured out from every den of the Realm and pounded up Peart’s Path to their Huntsman. Eagles flew and griffons flew and lions made way for honeyed badgers, and Wy raced forth on her moon bear, crowned with the golden skull of an elk. Ahead ran the whirlwind wolf gang, leaping their vicious glee. The Questioning Beast taunted them with near-catches and snide asides, but bit by bit they drove her ever higher into the mountaintops, until at last she took refuge in the highest caves of ice, where the Hunt became lost and confused.

 

 

In the echoing clamor of howls and growls, Wy wandered aimlessly with Peart, separated from her hounds in the frozen labyrinth.

“Well,” she said, “this isn’t the best.”

In the distance, a chorus of yips rang out, and with it the voice of the Questioning Beast. “I feel fantastic and I’m still alive!”

“No, no it isn’t,” agreed the bear beneath her. “But on the other paw, these caves are tickling something in me. Didn’t I take a clue about caves of ice from some ancient book or other?”

“Did you hear that?” Wy interrupted. There had been a sound like a clanking snap.“What was it called, now?” the bear mused on, paying no attention. “Grammar? Grammary? Gramarye? Oh dear, I do –“ But just then a figured clattered into the chamber.

“Oh, hello again,” it said. “Did you find Owl Urim yet?”

It was the Centurion again, lighting up the cave with its neon staff.

“I didn’t,” said Wy, “but I’m on a different Hunt now.”

The Centurion snapped its shutters at her. “Wy dear,” it said, “there’s only one Hunt. And we all join in, in our way.”

“Well, anyway,” Wy pressed on, “have you seen the Questioning Beast lately?”

“No,” answered the Centurion. “I chased her in here, but she swiftly lost me.”

“Drat,” said Wy. “Do you think-“

“Huntsman,” came a small voice suddenly. “I know this may not be the best time to make good on debts, but I found –“

Dodok cut short as he looked up into the brass glory of the Centaur Centurion. The Centurion stared back at the pure white blade in Dodok’s hands.

“Dodok,” said Wy, “I think that belongs to him.”

So Dodok held up the blade, and the Centurion held out his stump of a hilt, and the two clicked together in the caves.

“Do you know,” said the Knight, twirling its new-old blade before its shutters. “I feel quite… directed.”

And without another word, it swept Dodok up onto its back and galloped off into the caves, Seeking Sword thrust ahead. Wy gave a great whoop, and went gallumphing after.

 

 

The Centurion lead them unerringly back to the clamor of the Hunt, and then to the heels of the Questioning Beast. Her teases and tricks could not avail her against the Centurion and his Sword, and she retreated before them, growing desperate and silent save for her hoarse panting. She wove them hither and thither through the caves of ice, until at last she led them out the other side of the mountain, where an endless chasm cuddled a swirling snowstorm.

She laughed madly as she leaped across it, thinking herself safe.

But, “Strike, Centurion!” shouted Wy. “Very roughly!”

The Seeking Sword shot from the Centurion’s arm, anchored by chain.

 

 

 

“And when I’m flying I’ll be still ali-“

But the albino blade  
cleaved the breast  
of the Beast.

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

The Centurion’s chain hung taut across the chasm, a ready bridge for the nimble-fingered wolf gang. A minute of cold wind later, a drawbridge of ice fell down out of the snowstorm and three pale elves in thick fur mantles walked out. Behind them, the storm cleared to reveal a magnificent castle of ice and auroras.

“We represent the Wolf Gang,” said one of the pale elves, and grinned a meat-red grin. “We welcome you to the Dreaming Bawn.” She turned around and led them across the bridge. By the gates of the Bawn hung the Questioning Beast, impaled on the Seeking Sword and dripping thick blood down the wall.

 

 

Wy hung her suddenly heavy head, and before the Prey the Hunt bowed low. When their tribute was done, the Centaur Centurion retrieved his sword, and the wolf gang elves carried the Beast ahead into the Bawn’s Great Hall. At the end of the chamber was a massive throne where a headless man of oak sat waiting, a bitter spear in one clawed hand. The wolf gang laid the Questioning Beast before him, and the Hunt shifted its feet nervously.

 

 

Then the man stood, and pounded his spear against the ice. “The Hunt is here!” he shouted, and his voice rang out like a horn. “The Prey is brought down. Well done, my Huntsman.” He touched Wy’s shoulder. “But I will have my Head back now.” He plucked the golden skull from her head and seated it on his neck. “And now, we feast!”

The Hunt gave out a great “Huzzah!” and then the party really got started. Great fires were lit and soft hides laid out across the floor, and the wolf gang broke out the Bawn’s larders, scattering sweets of all colors over the crowd. The griffons caroused and the badgers two-stepped and the Men of the Path sang sad, eerie songs. Honeydew was found for the hunger of Peart, and the Hunter himself carved the roast Beast Gladosant.

And when they had all had their fill of food and drink and fun, all gathered round the Hunter’s throne and shared of one secret longing. All except the wolf gang, of course, who were snoring loudly around the hall, their mouths smeared with candy and blood – for they scorned cooked meat, as Falmer will do. But everyone else shared one of their lost dreams, and it was very solemn and sad. When it came Wy’s turn, though, she didn’t know what to say.

 

 

The Hunter took her in his lap, and told her to take her time.  
  
Wy wondered. “Can I ask questions?” she asked.

“Clearly,” the oak man chuckled, “But yes, you may.”

“Good. Who are you, then?”

“I am Hircine the Hunter, Demon Elk and Father of Manbeasts, Prince of this Realm.”

“And do you live here?”

“This is one of my halls, yes,” he answered. “The Falmer – my wolf gang – built this place for their own use, and I made it one of my Lodges. It is outpost, hideout, and gate to greater paths all at once.”

Wy nodded. “And are they werewolves?” she asked after a moment, pointing at the sleeping elves.

“Yes, Wy, they are werewolves.”

She kicked her feet. “So… why was everyone saying they would meet me here?”

Hircine chuckled again. “Because this is where all hunts end, Wy. When the prey has reach the point of desperation, clawing forward with no hope in its heart, the Bawn opens its gates. When the hunter quarters ever on, finding nothing but hunting anyway, striving, longing, wanting, straining against the world, then the Dreaming Bawn embraces. This is our annual seat of solace, Wy, where we share – not the spoils of the hunt, although this year you have broken precedent and given us that too – but the dreams and longing behind the hunt.”

He fell silent, and only the crack of flames filled the hall. A long moment later, he asked gently, “Do you know what you long for?”

“Yes,” answered Wy, and cried quietly, Joy unfrozen. “I wish the Gladosant weren’t dead.”

Hircine wrapped his arms around her. “I am glad of’t. All honour to the Prey.”

 

 

“And… I miss Knot,” Wy went on, hiccuping. “Do you know where he is?”

“I do, Wy, I do.” And Hircine stood, and carried Wy to the gates of the Bawn – and there Knot waited, buzzing happily before her.

Wy jumped out of the Demon Elk’s arms and ran to him, hugging his trunk tightly.

“Oh Wy,” called the Hunter. “Before you go, I have a little gift for you. I believe you were hunting a certain bird?” He held out a tiny silver owl, and from Knot’s branches came a smug hoot. “This is the Urim. It is yours.”

 

 

“Thank you!” exclaimed Wy, and ran back to take the owl from his oaken fingers. “Well – goodbye!” she called, and stepped half-in half-out of Knot’s sweet door.

“Happy Dreaming to all!” called Hircine and his Hunt from the light-kissed Bawn. “And to all a good Hunt!”

 

“Time to go home, Knot,” said honey-held Wy.  
and with that, the night dissolved  
to Nana.

 


End file.
